


Running Is Only Good If You Don't Get Caught

by Crowoxy



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: AU - What if, Angst, Carver/Sanity, Everyone Needs a Therapist, Family Drama, Family Feels, Gen, Humor, Kirkwall (Dragon Age), M/M, Old Norse Names, Original Character(s), PTSD, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Torture, anders tries his best, carver is done with everyone's shit, hawke needs a therapist, isolation mention, no one knows anything
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-12-04 22:46:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11564919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowoxy/pseuds/Crowoxy
Summary: It's never been a secret, but it's also something never discussed that Anders and Cullen were brothers. After all, what better place to live out the dream of being a heroic Templar at the same Circle your older brother went to? A what-if that explores the idea of the two white guys in DA2 being related and the demonic drama that goes with it.





	1. Seven Is The Lucky Number

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kinloch Hold falls and Anders and Cullen both have their own demons to face. Sort of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I'm actually posting this. This piece of... something, I started almost two years ago, I think? Basically I wanted to try and write Cullen without throwing him off a cliff and then I just stopped writing and got into other fandoms. 
> 
> And then comes the procrastination at work and finding this fic on Google Drive so hey, why not continue after a year and a half? Goodish news, somehow Cullen still hasn't fallen off a cliff yet. Its a WIP, I make no promises, people. Anything could happen.

Light hurt his eyes. Walking hurt his scabbed feet. It was nearly impossible to keep placing one foot in front of the other, limbs shaking and trembling with every step. These hurts weren’t the worst thing though; the worst were the people.

Anders had thought he would be glad to see faces - real actual faces - for the first time after so many scratched lines in the stones and an eternity of silence apart from the demons who flocked to him. But each person they passed sent him into a panic; hyper-vigilance he remembered some Senior-Enchanter saying once – Whine? Whit? He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember many names. Once maybe he knew everyone that he walked passed, but he didn’t look at them, trying to bury his face into the cold cold cold metal of the Templar escorting him somewhere in the Tower. He was terrified of the people in metal too, although slightly less than the faces he should remember but didn’t.

He did remember Hjalmar, Hjalmar who went by Cullen because it was easier to pronounce for the people of the Fereldan Kinloch Circle Tower. Hjalmar, the name he remembered when he couldn’t remember who he had been before Anders, before those endless days in painful darkness. Before the dark with no light and too many screams and whispers that chilled his skin over and over.

He cried out and he didn’t know to whom.

Stones pressed against his back and metal claws grabbed at his skin and he screamed and screamed and screamed.

“Stand aside if you would, my friends .” Familiar voice, old voice, he should know this voice but he didn’t.

“But First Enchanter!” The metal one protested, and didn’t they sound strange with muffled sounds echoing from the too shiny metal. It hurt his eyes: the metal glinting from polish in the dim lighting of the tower.

“Ser Myria, I am sure you mean well. But please let me see to him.” Old Voice, Familiar Voice said. First Enchanter the metal one had called him.

“But ser, you are still recovering from Uldred-“

“And he was just brought out from the solitary dungeons where he has been for over a year.” First Enchanter interrupted Metal One. Anders couldn’t remember ever being allowed to interrupt the metal ones. Except for Hjalmar-Cullen but that was only because he had known him for so long, his whole life, forever and ever. He always interrupted Hjalmar-Cullen and he would either roll his eyes or ruffle his hair.

It seemed important to remember the moments spent with Hjalmar-Cullen. 

Metal One must have moved aside because soft claws were touching his arm now, not metal ones. Whispers were flying through the air, but not the terrible ones that made his skin crawl. Soft, sweet, familiar old voice and Anders grabbed at him trying to bury his face in the soft cloth, wispy frazzled hair brushing against his.

“I don’t remember your name.” Anders sobbed into the shoulder. “Familiar voice, I should know but I don’t. Who are you, who am I? Too dark too long, metal claws hurt.”

“Hush, child.” Old Voice was soothing, calming. There were more wrinkles on his hands and face, although Anders didn’t know how he knew. “Anders, we will help you.” Old Familiar Voice sounded tired and in pain.

“Help, help. I help. I heal. Magic heals, I heal? I can help heal the pain.” Anders babbled. Hands glowing blue or green, glowing and helping, elfroot and bandages everywhere. He used to heal, was very good at it – Senior-Enchanter Mentor – fond grins and head pats - Wynne said so very long ago.

“That’s right Anders. You were a Spirit Healer. And very good at it from what Senior-Enchanter Wynne told me. Of all the times she decided to leave.” Sighs, so many sighs. “Your healing skills would be appreciated, child. Although, let us help you heal first. You’ve been gone for so long, we can do without for a little longer.”

Anders wailed. He didn’t know what else to do; he remembered he heals but was told not to heal Old Voice Familiar Voice. There was too much light and sound and too many faces after seeing no faces at all.

“Hjalmar, I want Hjalmar.” He cried. “Hjalmar will let me heal, always lets me heals. I want to see Hjalmar!”

“Who is he talking about, First-Enchanter?” The Metal One whispered. How could the Metal One not know Hjalmar-Cullen? Hjalmar-Cullen was the most important, always important, always younger but acted older and always his protector, his friend, his  _ brother _ .  

“It doesn’t matter right now, Ser Myria. I’m sure you have other duties, I will take him up to his rooms myself.” Familiar Voice with soft hands said firmly.

“I must protest ser.” Protest, always protest, why did you always protest Anders? Why didn’t you just accept your new life quietly like everyone else?

“Despite me having less sway over the Templars as Greagoir, Ser Myria, I can still command you to leave. We have lost enough people to the recent madness; I will not allow another one to fall because of my mistakes.” Metal people were always so loud when they walked; clanging and clanging, metal scrapping harshly against the stone floor. A hand pulled his head down until his wet face was laying comfortably on stretched out legs; fingers stroking through greasy hair.

Here, here Anders could close his eyes and hide away from the too-bright light. Could hide away from the faces of the people he should know the names of but didn’t. Could pretend the sounds he heard were all in his head, figments of his imagination.

He just wanted to see Hjalmar. He didn’t think that was too much to ask for, though days in the darkness had proven that no one could rely on Anders’ judgment, least of all himself.

He could hear no metal footsteps, and the whispers were quiet for the first time in a very long time. His fingers itched to heal  _ something _ , tingles dancing up and down wanting to release the magic that had been silent for so long in the darkness. Old Voice Familiar Voice was a comfort though, and Anders could seldom remember having one of those, apart from a few scattered memories with Hjalmar-Cullen.

Stolen moments in hidden alcoves where Anders would present a gift – seashells, a jeweled comb – and Hjalmar-Cullen would yell at him for running away from the safety of the tower before pulling him into a hug.

“You’re my older brother.” He would say, ruffling his hair. Always ruffling Anders’ hair. “Mother would have wanted me looking out for you, since you’re terrible at taking care of yourself.” Neither of them had ever talked about Father.

There were no more tears; he felt all dried out and hollow. Everything seemed more peaceful compared to just a scant few minutes prior. Still, Anders didn’t loosen his grip clutching Old Voice Familiar Voice’s soft robes, content to lay there for a good long while.

 

* * *

Anders woke alone in an unfamiliar room; the ceiling too high and the walls too far apart. And the light; there was so much light from the torches placed along the wall.

The door was closed. Anders flew off the bed – too soft, too warm, how did he ever fall asleep? – fingers scrambling for the doorknob. He couldn’t be locked in; he met with Old Voice Familiar Voice –  _ First Enchanter _ – that couldn’t have been all a lie. Anders would shatter if it were a lie.

The door opened, hinges squeaking loudly from rust. In no time at all, Anders was out of the room, long strides taking him nowhere, everywhere, somewhere, away from there. He kept to the sides of the halls, shoulder rubbing roughly against the stonewalls. He ducked his head whenever he passed others like First Enchanter, avoiding any glances and mutters by pretending he couldn’t see or hear them.

He didn’t know where he was going; letting his feet journey around wherever they wished after only being able to walk back and forth back and forth, six steps and six steps, the walls a barrier stopping him from going any further. Now there was so much space, so much openness, that Anders didn’t know what to do with or where to go.

He remembered wanting nothing more to be out of that cell for days upon days upon days, to get away from the Templars who didn’t seem to understand that solitary confinement meant that they should be leaving him alone, not…not…not –

Well, he couldn’t immediately recall what they had done; _ hands and screams that no one would hear nor care, taunts with blood, swords flashing, terror pain fear. _

His feet shuffled along the stone floor, ill-fitting robes hanging off his shoulders as Anders slowly raised and lowered his feet up a flight of stairs. He was forced to stop halfway up, the world spinning at the edges of his vision. Anders didn’t know how long he sat knees curled up into his chest, waiting for his breathing to stop sounding so haggard. Ribs creaked and groaned with every deep breath he took, but shallower gulps of air lead to black spots in his eyes and an unpleasant tingle in his extremities.

Footsteps clanged on the stairs below him and Anders scrambled up to his feet, half crawling half walking up the rest of the stairs. Metal  _ clangs _ , metal  _ hurts _ ; Anders didn’t want to hurt anymore.

Was he supposed to leave his cell? Would they throw him back in and lock the door until the tower crumbled down over his head? 

“ _ Please, stay! Don’t leave me in the dark anymore! Please let me out! I’m sorry, I’m sorry! Please please please please…” Only silence except for the metal footsteps clanging against the stone, only silence except for the sound of fists hitting skin, only silence except for the final slam of the metal doors locking shut leaving Anders behind to sob and scream to let him out of the dark, to please say something. _

Anders needed to use his entire body weight to push open the heavy oak doors leading to the next floor of the tower. The burst of energy that came from hearing the armored feet so close had faded and the mage stumbled away from the stairs and down the hall, crossing by several rooms in disarray and stopping by a door he knew so well: Cullen-Hjalmar’s room.

Before the darkness and the silence and the endless whispers, he would always sneak up to the room to visit, sometimes with a gift of something he managed to keep hidden away from the Metal Ones when they dragged him back to the tower from the outside wonders. Hjalmar-Cullen would yell at him for leaving and worrying him but always accept the trinket to hide away from the others.

Anders pushed open the door.

Light surrounded him and whatever strength he was using to keep standing vanished as the Smite came down on him full force. His hands moved too sluggishly to catch his fall, and Anders could feel the skin tear apart where his skull thudded on the stone floor. Shaking limbs pushed his head off the ground, his eyes wide as Hjalmar-Cullen, as his  _ brother _ , stood tall next to his cot sword in hand pointed at Anders.

“Hjalmar?” Anders whispered; didn’t Wynne say it was impossible for a person’s heart to suddenly freeze?

“You  _ dare _ .” The words were hissed, quiet and angry. “You dare wear his face, you dare speak my name.  _ You dare! _ ” Anders whimpered as a second Smite grew around him, his arms buckling under the pressure to connect his head solidly with the ground once again.

“Stop, please, Hjalmar!” Why, why, why? Why was Hjalmar standing there with his sword on him? Why was Hjalmar so angry with him?

“Your demons never stopped when I begged them to!” Cullen had been wearing his armor, the metal now clanging loudly as he stepped slowly –  _ threateningly _ – towards Anders. “I begged and I begged and I begged. And now you show up wearing his face, saying my name, asking for mercy!”

Anders scrambled backwards, hands barely supporting his weight, until he his back hit the door. The clanging ringed in his ears over and over each step that Hjalmar – no, Cullen – took.

“Now that I can fight you, now that I can  _ kill _ you! You beg, you beg! You will get no mercy from me, just as your kind showed no mercy when I was captured by you, mage!” Cullen was near frothing at the mouth, a kind of anger Anders had never seen his younger brother reach before.

Anders didn’t know what to do. His magic was dampened, hardly recovered from silence and darkness and it was  _ Hjalmar _ who was snarling at him instead of the usual silent Metal Ones.

“I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you!” Cullen roared, sword lighting up with energy as he raised it ready to strike. “I’ll kill you! All mages need to be killed; you are all corrupted!”

Pain bloomed as the edge of the sword infused with Righteous Strike caught Anders’ hands that he had unknowingly used to protect the more vital areas of his body. Cullen’s swing set him off balance, shoulders leaning over too far his knees and the Templar fell.

Anders didn’t even have to convince himself to leave Cullen behind; the pain fueling his aching limbs to dash, to stay far away, to keep away from the hurt.  _ Everyone always said Hjalmar had a lot of Father in him _ .

He sobbed as he ran, eyes welling up with tears, making it near impossible to see where he was running. There were shouts behind him and among them he could hear that familiar painful roar. Anders darted into the first room he saw, carefully shutting the door before collapsing in the corner. There were rows and rows of metal armor, placed carefully on stands although many pieces were missing or damaged. He had managed to find himself in the Templar armory.

He almost wished he had never been taken out of his cell that was only six steps by six steps, lost in the darkness of the basement of the tower. At least then it was only the voices making up stories of Hjalmar-Cullen wanting to kill him, to lock him away forever,  _ to stare disapprovingly at Anders _ ,  _ always an arm length away, so glad when the magic manifested, so happy when he could throw him in the basement to call for the Templars when the barn burned burned burned to the ground _ . Anders hadn’t wanted to believe the illusions of Hjalmar shadowed by Father – no, never Father, just Ser – but it seemed the demons of the Fade knew more about his brother than Anders ever did.

His memory was still clouded by blanketed darkness and walls closing in. But he knew he couldn’t stay in this place, which hurt so much, no matter what Old Voice Familiar Voice said.  _ He couldn’t _ .

There were so few Templars left in the tower, that no one noticed one extra Templar with slightly dented armor leaving out the front doors when night fell, the ferryman saying naught a word all the way to the docks of Lake Calenhad.

Anders ran and didn’t look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The names I chose for Anders and Cullen with their Anders heritage in mind... I absolutely do not remember the meanings of. I think the names are Icelandic, but I honestly can't tell you without looking it up. Which I shall do right now.
> 
> Cullen: Hjalmar - Old Norse. Meaning - Helmeted Warrior  
> Anders: Ragnvald - Modern name from the Old Norse name Ragnvaldr meaning advice, counsel (Reigen) and power, ruler (vald)
> 
> Tada, the magic of Google.


	2. Cullen Is the New Kid on the Block

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen moves to Kirkwall and doesn't play nice with any of the other kids.

Cullen wouldn’t say that he hated his new post as Knight Captain in Kirkwall. But he missed the Fereldan Circle at Kinloch, where everything had been simpler and he didn’t feel so overwhelmed nearly every day. Knight Commander Meredith had been wonderful in helping him recover after the demon attack at Kinloch two years ago, but there were some days where even he was apprehensive about the decisions he agreed with to control the mages.

Ser Alrick’s Tranquil Solution that he had written to the Knight Commander and himself about would have been a saving grace back in Fereldan when all the mages had gone insane because of Uldred and his blood magic craze. But now? Now when there was an overabundance of blood mages, yes, but the lengths the Templars of the Gallows wielded their power over the mages was far greater than he had ever seen at Kinloch. A lesser man, like Ser Thrask, would say that the Templars were far too strict on their charges.

Cullen disagreed; if Kinloch had taught him anything, it was that they were far too lenient over their mage charges.

He had gotten rather proficient at ignoring the guilty images of a familiar blonde face; one he hadn’t seen in years but could never forget. Especially when demons would wear his face to taunt him with his death. Because he had escaped from the tower for the sixth time, and then he had heard nothing, nothing of what happened to Ragnvald, Anders to everyone else. His older brother would always, always get caught after escaping and he would always come see Cullen to share some story or the other. Sometimes he would manage to hide a little trinket he picked up during his escapes from the Templars searching him upon capture and then show it to Cullen. They were always little baubles, small things that Cullen could have easily picked up at any time while on leave from duty. But it pleased Ragnvald greatly to share these small toys with his younger brother.   
Cullen had never asked how his older brother had managed to sneak in those little gifts. He hadn’t really asked him a great many things, only assumed that if Cullen ever had any inquiries he would have time to ask him. They should have had years ahead of them in Kinloch where Anders would leave and be dragged back, and Cullen would be waiting for him to return, guarding the other mages from daring escapades outside the tower.

Looking back, Cullen shouldn’t have been so shocked that life as he knew it had changed so drastically. Mages were not to be trusted; they were simply too dangerous to be trusted. Even beloved family members weren’t exempt.

Something crunched beneath his foot and Cullen had a sinking suspicion that it might have been bone. He forced himself not to look down; it was most likely just an old animal bone but if the claims that the apothecary shop keeper rang any truth about his ventures into the Wounded Coast, well Cullen didn’t really want to find out.

There. Up ahead, sun glinted off of metal. Metal most definitely from recruit Wilmod who he had been following discreetly for most of the day now. Cullen double-checked to see his sword loose in its scabbard, within easy reach to pull out. 

“You have no business being out and about on the Wounded Coast, recruit!” Threaten him and scare him into confessing something. Most likely something to do with magic; it corrupted everyone, Cullen was a witness to that two years ago.

“S-ser!” Wilmod looked properly terrified, eyes wide as Cullen approached closer. “I-I wasn’t expect – that is to say – what are you doing here?” Don’t let your guard down, not yet. He was the only recruit to return, he didn’t believe in the Order, which meant he could be a robe sympathizer. It would be a waste of a promising recruit, but a necessary one if that was the case.

“I believe that question should be mine, Wilmod. You were under orders to stay within the Gallows. Yet here I find you, gallivanting among the Coast. Explain yourself.” Only a few feet separated Cullen from his target. And Wilmod had no sword out and ready, no weapon to defend himself should Cullen find him guilty.

“Fresh air, ser! Just a bit of fresh air.” Wilmod cowered against the rocks. “I was off duty and thought a bit of open space couldn’t hurt. That’s all, I swear it!”

“Andraste be my witness, Wilmod!” Cullen grabbed Wilmod’s arms, pushing him further into the rocks behind him. “I will have the truth from you now!” Lie, lie, lie. All people who didn’t believe in the Templar Order were liars. Liars and heretics, poor souls who couldn’t see that the Templar Order was part of Andraste’s design, the foundation on which life continued in order. Those who didn’t believe in the greatness of the Order were those who set out to throw the world into chaos.

“Mercy ser, mercy!” The frightened eyes of the recruit did not deter him. Wilmod was lying and evading and they both knew it. Cullen could taste the lie in the air.

“Were it that easy.” He growled. Pleas for mercy and begging to avoid being hit? Lies, lies lies lies, all lies! Cullen kneed the boy to the ground and unsheathed his sword, the hilt resting comfortably in his hand, as he pointed the blade at the recruit – no, the former recruit now.

“I will know where you’re going. And I will know now!” How easy it would be to lunge and finish this now; to strike a blow before Wilmod show resistance and his true colors. But no, the information that Cullen knew Wilmod possessed was needed. Killing him now would leave him with nothing but a dead body.

“I thought Templars only treated mages this badly. Nice to see you’re branching out.” 

Cullen started as a newcomer sauntered up the slope, bearded chin doing nothing to hide the frown he sent in Cullen’s direction. A glaive with a sharpened blade on one end and a jewel-encased hilt was strapped behind his back; Cullen could see the hilt of at least two daggers hooked on to the man’s belt. There were three companions nearby, one nearly right at his shoulder who looked remarkably similar to the man who had spoken, and two others further down the path. He didn’t lower his sword at Wilmod.

“Brother, must you antagonize everyone you meet?” The similarities meant they were brothers then. Cullen wondered if his own brother and he had ever shared such comparable traits. The other human companion had turned away and was trying to step around the only dwarf companion in the party. Cullen ignored them, focusing on keeping an eye on Wilmod and on the closer strangers.

“What can I say? We seem to have an affinity for finding all of the assholes in this place.” The bearded one drawled. “You shouldn’t be so surprised, Carver.”

“I’m not. I just wish you wouldn’t do this every single time we go outside. Maybe I would enjoy taking a walk for once without having to pull my sword out every ten minutes.”

“This is Templar business, stranger!” Cullen interjected. He was letting this drag on for too long. Far too long. Interrogating Wilmod should have been done and over with by now; either with the boy innocent and convinced of the Templar Order’s rules or taken care of. Anything that the stranger would have said in return was drowned out by familiar loathsome laughter coming out of Wilmod.

“Maker preserve us.” Cullen whispered. Demons, of course it would be demons and naturally they would all have the same exact laugh. Malicious and cruel, the only laughter a demon knows. 

The fight wasn’t long. Cullen was hyper focused on his sword hacking away at the demon’s skin, chunks of flesh flying everywhere in the air under his fury. Any wounds he received he could not feel, a strange but familiar tingling itching the places he had seen claws scratch. A habitual echo of shoulder length blonde hair and a bright smile hiding the sorrow and hands enveloped in a green and blue light moving over open cuts flashed through his mind as Wilmod’s body fell lifeless to the ground.

Cullen looked up; the blonde human had his hands out, blue and green swarming over to the brothers, healing all opened and bleeding flesh closed.

“Ragnvald?” The man’s head shot up and Cullen found it hard to breathe when a face that had haunted him for years could look so petrified when looking at him.

“Ragnvald.” Cullen uttered again, taking a step towards him. Then his brother did what he had always been best at in the Tower:

Running.

And just as it had been in the village streets before magic and templars had dictated their lives, Hjalmar chased after Ragnvald.


	3. What Cullen Wants.....

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen is an angry, confused mess who needs to re-evaluate his life choices, Hawke is an asshole and loves it, Carver hates everything but is Secretly A Sweetheart, and Varric has too many notebooks filled out with ideas.

Cullen hadn’t run very far, Anders still sprinting at full speed down the coast ahead of him, before a large weight tackled him down.

“Whoa, sorry there, Knight Captain, but I’m afraid I’m not going to let you drag my healer away from me.” The man who had been with Anders continued sitting on Cullen’s back; the Templar twisted uncomfortably to see him smiling toothily, the sharpened end of his glaive pressing into his leg. “And now you’ve chased him back into hiding in his little hole. Do you know how hard it was to convince him to join me on this little venture?” The beard fell in an elaborate pout.

“He’ll be a bit skittish for a while, Hawke. But he’ll come back around when you smile at him.” The dwarf with the crossbow and the moody teenager with the giant sword came strolling down the hill. Well, the dwarf was strolling; the human was shuffling his feet like he wanted to be anywhere else but here. 

“Disgusting.” The human – Carver, if Cullen remembered correctly – muttered.

“But true, Junior. Can’t deny the facts when they’re staring at you right in the face.” The dwarf grinned down at Cullen. “Fancy meeting you here on the good old Coast, Knight Captain. And with demons no less!”

“I was not expecting Wilmod to be an abomination, dwarf. Now if you would kindly just let me up, so I can be on my way.” However dignified as benefitted his station he tried to sound, Cullen just knew it was lost with half of his face pressed into the dirt.

“Yeah, on your way chasing my healer. Didn’t we establish this already?”

Cullen hissed. “You are interfering with Templar business, Ser. So get off of me if you don’t want me to report to the guard and let me be on my way.”

“And what will you tell the City Guard, Ser Cullen? That the prestigious Knight Captain was unable to give a poor citizen a piggy-back ride without falling face-first into the ground?” Hawke snorted before glancing over at the dwarf. “His name is Cullen, right Varric?”

“Got it in one, Hawke.” Varric nodded. “Ser Knight Captain Cullen of Kirkwall’s circle, stationed here for two years with a record of fast promotions. Meet Garret Hawke and his younger brother Junior Carver Hawke. And me I suppose. Varric Tethras, not yet at your service.”

“Would you stop calling me Junior? It’s not my name.” Carver grumbled. Varric just laughed.

“One day you’ll grow into your breeches, Junior. One day. And you’ll appreciate it.”

“But moving along from those nasty things called introductions, why would I let you up to chase after a mage because of Templar business? A mage who spends all his time healing at that. Seems to be pretty much the opposite of what I should do, morally if nothing else.” Hawke moved his legs to sit cross-legged on Cullen’s back.

Cullen itched to run Hawke through. To buck him off and simply thrust his sword through the cocky bastard’s chest with the sharp end of his blade.

“Because  _ Serrah _ Hawke. That mage is my  _ brother _ , who I’ve thought dead for over three years now.” Cullen growled. “Now get  _ off _ .”

“Shit, that’s some family drama I did not expect.” Varric sounded interested. “I hope you don’t mind that I’ll be taking notes for this.”

Hawke didn’t move. “Look, Cullen.” For the first time this afternoon, Hawke actually sounded serious. “Even if he was your brother, I still wouldn’t let you go chase after him. I saw how terrified he was, and he doesn’t get scared like that easily. So, logically, you must have done something to get him running back to his clinic from the Coast in under five minutes.”

“I didn’t. He had been gone from the tower for so long and there was no word at all about him in Kinloch. He’s never been gone longer than months at a time. Of course I thought he had finally died.” A few months, the longest being six months, before his brother would be dragged back with a smile on his face and bruises to show of his adventures. To have been gone nearly a year and a half and then Uldred’s demon take over of the Circle? Cullen was too afraid to think anything else. Because if Ragnvald hadn’t perished, then why hadn’t he come to say anything to him? Why leave him behind with no word?

“And so you assume that he  _ had _ to have died. Such confidence in your so called brother.” Hawke said drily. “I bet even Carver has more confidence in me than you apparently did.”

“Honestly at this point, I just want someone to punch you in the face because they realize you are the world’s biggest asshole.” Carver sighed. “A simple dream, but it seems so far away.”

“I know I’m an asshole. I just keep solving everyone’s problems so they never can say anything about it. Except you, brother dearest.” Hawke blew a kiss in Carver’s direction, and the teenager made a face of disgust.

“So now that you know why, can you please get off of me? I can’t really chase after Ragnvald now, since he’s long gone.” Cullen peered up at Hawke as best he could. “But you know where he lives; maybe you could help me talk to him?”

“Hmmm.... Yes on the letting you up. You aren’t very comfortable to sit on. But no on the telling you where Anders lives.” Hawke slowly got up, taking his time to get off of Cullen’s back.

“What? Why not?” Cullen pushed himself off the ground, glaring at Hawke for refusing to give him vital information. This was his  _ brother _ . His brother. He deserved to know where he had been after all these years.

“I already told you, he’s terrified of you. I’m not leading you straight to his safe space, especially when he has people to heal and take care of. And two, I don’t trust you. Your first impression was of you threatening one of your recruits, wouldn’t say that screams trustworthiness, Knight Captain.”

“He was an abomination!” Cullen protested.

Hawke simply shrugged. “Yeah, that’s how it ended up, but you didn’t know that until the sod started laughing like a maniac, but you had him against the rocks and your weapon before that happened. I just don’t think someone who draws a sword on one of their recruits is someone I want to send chasing after my healer, regardless of supposed family connections.”

Cullen must have looked like a fish out of water. He certainly felt like it.  Three years,  _ three _ years of thinking his brother perished either in the world outside of the circle or by Templars or by demons. And when he finally sees his face – _ alive _ – alive but gaunt and ill looking, he was being blocked by some bastard of a pretentious mabari who had claimed Ragnvald as his own. How  _ dare _ he.

“Whoops. Looks like I may have broken Prince Curls into shock.” Hawke whistled. “Don’t think I’ve done that yet.”

“What about that time with those neighbors back in Lothering, brother? You certainly did it to them often enough over the span of a decade.” Carver pointed out.

“I meant only in Kirkwall,  _ Junior _ . Of course it happened all the time in Lothering; I was just growing into my charm and powers of persuasion.”

“Charm he calls it. I distinctly remember it being called something far more vulgar.” The younger Hawke muttered.

“While I don’t think I want to know this story, except yes I totally do with multiple drinks in my hand, I am appreciating the nickname for Curly over here. It’s sticking.” Varric had pulled out a piece of paper and a bit of charcoal and was scribbling furiously; somehow whatever letters Cullen could see out of the corner of his eye appeared to be neatly pressed into the parchment, regardless of the dwarf using his hand as a writing table. 

“ _How dare you?_ ” Cullen hissed, his limbs jerking while picking his sword back up into his hands to point at Hawke and his entourage. “You have _no_ idea what I have been through since he left. _None_. Do not presume to know me and my role in this city and tell me where my brother is!”

“Oooooh, and now you’re threatening me. You know, I don’t think you’re going to solve many problems by waving your sword around like that all the time. That only seems to work for Carver, and only half the time.” Hawke didn’t even have the decency to look a smidgen terrified. Was this how he was seen by the commoners of Kirkwall? As nothing more than a joke to never be taken seriously despite his title? Knight Commander Meredith struck fear in the hearts of everyone by pure force alone and it was admirable. Perhaps his own leniency had caused the citizens to think him a throwaway figure. That would need to change immediately.

Cullen stood as straight as was possible. “Garrett Hawke, you are hereby arrested for aiding in the escape of a possible mage and inhibiting in a Templar Order’s mission.”

“Oh by all means, arrest me Prince Curls. And then maybe the entire populace will know that it isn’t just mages that can become those dreaded abominations. In fact, the Templars, the very people supposedly protecting the general passerby from the evils of magic, can  _ also _ be possessed by demons. When do you think the riots will start, Knight Captain?” Behind Hawke, Carver groaned and mumbled something Cullen couldn’t hear. Varric reached up to pat Carver’s hip sympathetically.

“Are you blackmailing me, Hawke?” Cullen was ready to throttle the man. Squeeze the condescending mirth Cullen could see all across his face.

“Naturally.” Hawke grinned. “I would loathe being locked away with armed guards watching every step I take. Can you really blame me, Knight Captain?”

“Don’t forget to mention just how popular you are with the Guard Captain.” Varric chuckled and Hawke joined in.

“Yes, can’t forget that bit! Aveline would love to have me complaining all day long in her barracks.” It took several long seconds for Hawke to cease his laughter. “In all honesty, Cullen? Just go. Anders clearly doesn’t want to see you. And from the few stories my favorite dwarf has managed to wrangle out of him, I don’t blame him for running from anything that reminds him of the Circle. Including old family members.” Hawke pivoted on his heel and started down the Coast, heading back to the gates leading into Kirkwall. Varric threw a wink at Cullen as he strolled after the elder Hawke.

“We have heard some terrible stories, you know.” Carver stared directly at Cullen. “About the Circle and what the Templars do to the mages there. I don’t trust you either. But I know I would do anything to at least see my twin again if I was given the chance.” Carver shrugged and looked towards his older brother joking with Varric. “I don’t trust you, but… If you were perhaps to visit Darktown discretely and look for the green lantern; well I’m not saying you’ll find him there. But you might find something. Just don’t hurt him anymore than you already have. My brother is  _ really _ fond of the healer.”

It seemed Cullen standing around in shock was going to be a common theme with any visit from any of the Hawkes. As he watched the party walk into the city, Cullen sent a prayer up to the Maker that he wouldn’t ever see Garrett or Carver Hawke again. 

“Darktown, huh?” Did he even have any clothes shabby enough to wander in the sewers of Kirkwall? Why would his brother choose to live in the gutters and disease stricken part of the city when he could have just come to the Circle Tower and be more comfortable? Hjalmar hoped to answer those questions when he saw Ragnvald again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dudes, I cannot believe people are actually reading this. Like.... what? But no I love it, its amazing. Just a note, I'm barely editing this, like at all. So if anything pops out that you want to correct me on, please do so. I'm definitely not putting in all the effort that I should for this.


	4. Darktown is the Place to Be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone is having a grand old time thinking of the past in the sewers of Kirkwall. The only thing missing are the shared cookies.

“Your actual name is Ragnvald?” Of course that would be the very first thing Hawke would say after that disaster of a trip to the Wounded Coast. “Why did you never tell me?”

“You are completely butchering the word, please stop using it.” Anders winced. “No one who isn’t from the Anderfels could ever say my name and I’d rather forget it.” He had heard whispers that Hjalmar had been placed as Knight Captain at the Kirkwall Circle but didn’t truly believe it; not until he had literally run into the man while on an errand for Hawke involving Templars. The only time he wanted to see Templars were if they were dead at his feet trying to stop him from escorting mages from their prison in the Gallows. Or dead at his feet after sticking a sword straight through his chest.

Besides, his brother most definitely did not want to see him, not alive anyhow. He had made that perfectly clear the last time Anders had seen him face to face.

Anders ushered a newly healed patient out, stepping around Hawke to replace the tattered sheets he used to cover the cots. “I’m just Anders now, and it’s the one thing I’m perfectly fine with.” The sheet barely covered the whole cot. Anders sighed, thinking fondly of the full store of supplies that had been available to him while at Vigil’s Keep. If used carefully, half of the materials there could be used for the Fereldan refugees and Darktown residents – and mages, though he shouldn’t say that out loud if he wanted to still be around to help – for a good long while.

Well, it wasn’t like he could ever go back. Seemed to be a reoccurring theme for his life.

“The Knight Captain seemed awfully fond of using it. Was he even saying it correctly?” Hawke wasn’t going to leave without some sort of answer it seemed. And people liked to think he was stubborn.

“You should leave the fishing of information to Varric, Hawke. You’re terrible at being subtle.”

“But that’s why you love me!” Anders smiled at Hawke. Maker, how that was true. He shouldn’t, he knew he shouldn’t and he didn’t need Justice’s little barbs to remind him, but Anders did love Hawke. Another reoccurring theme in his life: loving people who could hurt him the most.

“It unavoidable really.” Anders moved to one of the other patients coughing weakly, collecting a batch of herbs and water that had been boiling in the corner. “You just keep nettling people until they either love you or try to kill you.”

“Or both, in the case of Carver.” Hawke bit his lip. “No, wait. That was Bethany. Carver just wants to kick the shit out of me.”

“A bit difficult seeing how you’re full of shit. He could keep trying and there would always be more.” Varric stood in the doorway, his chest displayed magnificently as always.

“Hush Varric! I wouldn’t want to ruin my brother’s hopes and dreams, as impossible as they are.”

“It’s too late for that, brother. My dreams were dashed the minute I was old enough to realize what an ass you were.” Speak of the Hawke, and the Hawke will appear. His patients who were able to move were slinking out of their beds and into the dank tunnels of Darktown. Anders preferred to believe it was because they wanted to give him privacy rather than them leaving because they knew he would be too occupied to continue healing. 

Varric rubbed his hands together. “So, Blondie. I believe you owe us a story. The Knight Captain?”

“I take back everything I may have said about you being subtle, Varric.” Anders pointed at Hawke. “That one over there was far more subtle than you.”

“I am wounded by your accusations, Blondie. Simply devastated.” Varric couldn’t even muster up a hurt expression, he was grinning far too much. “My good friend Ragnvald should know all of my fishing methods by now and how inefficient they are on some people.”

“Please,  _ please _ . For the love of anything, stop saying that name. You people butcher it so terribly it’s almost painful.” Anders groaned. He never understood why it was so hard for people outside of his Father’s homeland to sound out a few syllables. “Hjalmar always did favor our Father more, including using the names he had ‘bestowed’ upon us from his native language. Mia and I loathed it. Hjalmar loved it. I don’t remember what the younger ones thought, they were too young. I doubt they even remember me.”

“Anders, you are going to have to elaborate on all of this. Who is Hjalmar? Mia? You had more siblings?” Hawke pushed Anders down on an empty cot, placing himself right next to the healer. Varric had his trusty parchment and writing utensil out. Carver tried not to look interested, but wasn’t doing a very good job at it with how often he kept sneaking peeks at Anders.

Anders didn’t know where to start. All he knew of his family were memories that were two decades old and whatever Cullen would tell him from letters he got to send back home. “I don’t think you really want to know. There’s not much to tell.” The mage looked down at his hands. Would he even have written to his family if mages in the Circle were allowed to?

“Of course I want to know. I want to know everything about you.” Hawke looked so earnest, with that small smile aimed directly at Anders. He could never say no to that and he knew Varric had picked up on that tidbit by the dwarf’s quiet chuckles.

“Give me a minute to even figure out what to talk about since this is everyone’s favorite topic of the day.”

“It’s not  _ mine _ .” Carver muttered, leaning against the wall.

“You’re welcome to leave if you don’t want to listen, Carver.” Hawke pointed out. “I’ll even escort you home, hold your hand and everything. Mother might even smile.”

“Fuck off, Garrett.”

“Nope, I’m staying right here for story time.” Garrett grinned as Carver rolled his eyes. “Go on, Anders. Start at the beginning. Siblings? Parents? Pet dragons?”

“No dragons unfortunately. Just sheep and whatever cats we found hiding in the barn.” Anders tried to picture his home, but it had been so long he could only remember hazy images.

“I was the eldest of five. Before I was dragged off to the Circle anyways. Ma helped Father with the farm and did a bit of herbalism on the side. Mia, she got the easy sounding name, was two years younger me.” Mia had curly reddish hair, he remembered. She would always complain about how it kept flying everywhere. “Hjalmar is five years younger, he was always Father’s favorite. I was too ‘soft’ to be the warrior or the farmer he wanted. Not that I cared, I enjoyed following our Mother around and helping her with her potions and tonics. Now he’s Knight Captain of the Kirkwall Circle, and I’m an apostate Warden healing people in the sewers. Ironic, isn’t it?” Anders gave a bitter smile.

Garrett wrapped his arms around Anders and the mage stiffened; the other mage said nothing but simply loosened grip so Anders could push away if he so wished. Anders didn’t.

“A little ironic. Templar younger brother and the more attractive magic wielding older brother? Sounds a bit like the start of a really bad joke.” Hawke glanced over at his younger brother. “You aren’t planning on becoming a Templar, are you?”

“If I was, I wouldn’t tell you, now would I? I’d rather see your face when I come wearing that stupid decorative armor.” Carver didn’t even look up from the glare he was giving the floor of Anders’ clinic.

“Aw, are you missing Quartermaster Thren from Ostagar, brother?” Hawke beamed at Carver who just snorted. Anders had decided that snorting was Carver’s favorite response to anything.

“The man? No. His practical armor that didn’t cost sovereigns to make because of stupid looking design work, yes. He was an ass but at least his complaints about the Templar armor were spot on.”

“We were both at Ostagar.” Hawke explained to Anders. “I couldn’t really use magic – still did a bit to cheat – but I’m good enough with just swinging the glaive that it worked.”

“Yeah, until you did get caught by some Templar who had wandered over to our squadron and I had to tell him I was your Templar handler or some shit.” The sound of Varric scribbling in the background increased.

“Hey, he seemed to buy the lie. And the whole me forgoing mage fashion to wear trousers because it was more comfortable thing.” Hawke laughed.

“Ugh, trousers are so annoying.” Anders crinkled his nose. “Wearing robes made it so much easier to get by in the Tower. Easy to have some fun times when you don’t have to worry about unlacing.”

“I find it too drafty.” Hawke complained. “My legs get cold too easily.”

“You just aren’t used to it.” Anders chuckled. “Not much to do for fun in the Tower apart from figure out ways to be quick and quiet.”

“Even the Templars, Blondie?” Varric asked from his corner. The smile slipped off of Anders’ face.

“Ah. No. If they weren’t breaking whatever mages they found together apart, they could be as loud and long as they liked. Provided not too many classes were being missed.”

“Huh, interesting.” Varric scratched his quill against the paper. “So then what’s the deal with Curly then? He became a Templar to stay close to you or something?”

Anders was glad for the change in topic; he wondered how quickly that would change. “Something like that. Cullen always wanted to be a Templar. Thought they were the grandest things of all time. He was seven, I think, when the Templars came for me. I didn’t see him in the Tower until he was stationed there as a recruit at fifteen. By then I had earned a reputation as a runner to be heavily watched, so he volunteered.” Anders looked down at his hands, his fingers fidgeting. “I’d run, be dragged back, and he’d be waiting with a lecture about why I shouldn’t leave the Circle. I’d smile and pretend that he was just saying that because there were always people listening in so he couldn’t wish I had managed to stay away.”

“And then what happened?” Hawke said quietly. He had tightened his arms around Anders, but the mage barely even noticed. He didn’t notice how quiet it had gotten in his clinic; Varric’s quill laying flat on the paper as the writer looked at the healer.

“Solitary.” Anders finally whispered, eyes looking at nothing as he spoke. “I had been thrown in there before, just never that long before. I would have preferred the whips over the dark. But when I got out, Cullen tried to kill me. So I ran again. And this time I got stuck with the Wardens, though that didn’t mean the Templars didn’t try to take me back even though legally they couldn’t.” He was eerily still, staring straight at the corner of the clinic without looking at anything.

“I…I don’t want to talk about this anymore. Can I stop?” His voice was small, almost inaudible even to his own ears. Hawke just pulled him closer, resting his forehead against his.

“You can do whatever you want, Anders. Whatever you want.” Hawke took a few deep breaths. “Do you want us to leave?”

Anders shook his head, pulling away from Hawke. “No, no… you can stay. I’m – I’ll just be going back to work so stay as long until you get bored of watching me treat sick refugees.” Sitting around and doing nothing meant his thoughts would wander. And he didn’t want to think about anything right now.

“Well, I can’t speak for anyone else, but I am more than happy to sit around and ogle the healer as he works.” Hawke’s quip sounded forced.

“You can ogle the healer all you like, Hawke. Some of us have actual work to do.” Varric had packed away his trustworthy paper and quill. “I’ll see you later at the Hanged Man, Blondie. No excuses this time.” Varric left with one last glance at the occupants of the clinic. Carver stood to follow him.

“I’m going as well, brother. Anders. I swear I can hear Mother yelling from down here.”

“Could you make sure the lantern is lit outside?” Anders hoped there would be plenty of patients to keep him busy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Personal headcannon with mage Hawke time: my first play through I played as a mage Hawke and came to the ultimate decision that even as a mage, Hawke wouldn't let their little brother off to fight a war without them. Hence, Hawke gets a glaive to look Extra Cool and disguise the fact that he cheats with arcane tricks while fighting. Not that it really matters when fighting against Hurlocks, fuck those guys.


	5. Carver Doesn't Get Paid Enough for this Shit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carver hates being a younger sibling, Hawke gets angry over his apostate-not-boyfriend (yet) and Cullen Thinks He Knows Best.

“Solitary? They had him solitary more than once?” Hawke was pacing inside their room in Gamlen’s shack while Carver watched him from the bedroll. “Not only do these Templars feel the need to lock mages away from going outside, but now they stuff them in dungeons and deprive them of basic human needs?”

“Careful, brother. You might give yourself an aneurysm with all that pacing.” Carver was carefully looking over his sword, checking for nicks or unsharpened edges.

“Shut up, Carver.” Hawke snapped. “How could someone, let alone an entire Order, justify putting someone in solitary? Not once, but multiple times!”

“He said it himself; he was a runner.” Carver pointed out. “Templars don’t like mages who break the rules.”

“That still doesn’t validate it, Carver!” Hawke shouted. “Why not just kill him if he keeps breaking the rules? Maker knows they kill mages here for not making their beds! Why keep torturing him like that?” Ice formed around Hawke’s fingers. Carver didn’t answer.

“And then his brother tries to kill him when he gets out? If he was a Templar there, why didn’t he try to get him out? Why let him rot down there? I am going to have words with the Knight Captain!”

“Brother, please stop.” Carver jumped up to hold Hawke back. Cold ice crawled up where his hands met his older brother’s skin. “That trick worked when I was younger, brother. I’m too used to it now.” Ice broke off and fell to the floor.

“Tell me. Why can’t I go to the Gallows to give Cullen a piece of my mind, little brother?” Rage pulsed hotly against his skin, anger at the brutality mages faced, the brutalities his  _ sister _ could have faced if she hadn’t died because of an ogre.

“Because if you go to the Templar stronghold like this, you’ll be dragged away. And I’d rather you were still here to be Mother’s main source of ire.” Correctly assuming Hawke wasn’t going to go storming off to turn himself over to the Templars in a fit of (righteous) anger, Carver let go of his brother’s arm, shaking the residual numbness from the magicked ice. Hawke snorted and continued pacing back and forth.

Carver knew Hawke was even more upset than he seemed when no customary sarcastic quip followed. He sighed; while a part of him was gleeful that his perfect older brother was finally rattled about something, there was a larger part that he tried to ignore that wanted to drag his brother to the Gallows to see him punch the living daylights out of Knight Captain Cullen. Carver would love to do it himself, but there was something deliciously ironic about an apostate running jobs for the Templar Order and giving a right hook to the Knight Captain of the entire Kirkwall Order.

Family didn’t try to kill family, ever. If you couldn’t count on your siblings or parents to have your back, then you couldn’t trust anyone. It was one of Dad’s lessons that firmly stuck in Carver’s mind, especially at his bitter jealousy of Garrett and his perfect wit and charm until they both found themselves relying only on each other after the fall of Ostagar.

It was hard to remain jealous of someone when they were as sleep deprived and covered with mud and blood from both people and darkspawn as you were, barely dragging themselves back home to Lothering before the Blight caught right back up with them. Carver had burst into tears at the sight of his twin who he was almost convinced was nothing more than an illusion, and he had been on a battlefield running past Hurlocks his entire life.

Bethany had held him close and whispered in his ear about how he could nail her hair to the bedpost as often as he liked, just please don’t leave again. Mother watched the two of them, standing next to them, her eyes hungrily looking over her youngest children. Carver had never noticed before then how much distance Mother kept between herself and her eldest child, giving him only the briefest of hugs before her attention was on Bethany and Carver holding each other on the ground.

Carver had been so wrapped up in thinking his parents simply adored Garrett, that he never noticed how Father would focus most of his teachings with Bethany since they shared the same schools of magic, while Garrett would practice forms to the side. And Mother never really asked for his opinions as much as he butted in with a laugh permanently etched on his face.

Then the ogre and Bethany and Carver had his eyes opened with how Mother seemed to blame Garrett for her death; for everything that had gone wrong with their lives since Father died, maybe even before that. And Garrett had just taken her accusations with a smile like he always did.

When they finally had a moment's rest at the docks after the dragon Flemeth had dropped them off, Carver had cried long and hard on Garrett’s shoulder for the loss of Bethany and how he may not ever really know how much pain his older brother was in. Because Garrett was terrified to show any signs of discomfort, to guarded to let his own family know when he wasn’t fine.

_ Family is everything,  _ Father had said, only to push his eldest on some pedestal to keep away until needed.

_ I love all of you _ . Mother had smiled and patted their heads even though all of her children were taller than she was. And then she went and accused Garrett for letting Bethany die by not pulling off a miracle to get her out of the ogre’s bloody grasp before her neck broke. 

_ You can only trust family _ . Who did Garrett have in the family to trust if their own parents kept him an arm’s distance away all the time? Well, now it would be Carver if he had anything to say about it. Which he did because without Bethany, Carver was only half of a whole and he refused to lose his older brother too.

“Look, it’s a terrible idea,” Carver folded his cleaning rag in half. “But if you must make a spectacle of yourself in front of the Templars, could you at least ask the Knight Captain if he even knows what Anders is talking about? I’m not doubting him!” Carver added hastily as Garrett opened his mouth to protest. “But he said it himself that he was just up from solitary so maybe he missed something.”

“You want me to go be civil to a  _ Templar _ ?” Hawke said stiffly.

“Only for a few minutes.” Carver reassured him. “Granted, I still think your policy of civility is backwards and you really should reconsider.”

“You mean, be more like you and bitter at everyone even if you haven’t actually talked to them?” Of course Garrett would be fighting off a grin at Carver’s expense. Carver narrowed his eyes.

“I,” he sniffed, “am not bitter at everyone. Just the idiots who just so happen to currently be everyone. You are just an ass all the time. See if I let you go to Gallows now, dear brother.”

“I am the biggest ass, yes. Shall we skip to the Gallows now?”

“I shouldn’t have offered. We could be sleeping, but instead it’s off to the Gallows for your future boyfriend.” As if Carver would ever let his older brother head off to the Gallows alone. He would rather stay behind from the Deep Roads Expedition than have that happen.

“Psh. Sleeping is boring. Can’t go around criticizing Knight Captains if we just sleep all the time. Or ogling precious ex-Warden healers who aren’t yet my boyfriend because shit keeps happening in this stupid city.” Garrett slung his glaive in its customary spot across his back, the bladed end sticking out a little less than half a foot above his head. Carver’s own sword went into its usual holster; the movements practiced from repetition of countless skirmishes on a battlefield.

“And he has his own shit that he needs to focus on.” Carver muttered as they stepped out of the grimy rooms Uncle Gamlen called home.

“And he has his own very important shit to deal with.” Garrett agreed. “Do you know he gives practically all his food away to the refugees? And any spare thing that isn’t on his back?” 

Carver sighed. His brother was positively smitten with the mage, and had been since their eyes locked in the sewers. Sickening. “Brother, if you don’t stop waxing poetry about the poor healer, I’m going to grab the glowy magic-hating elf to join me in trying to slowly kill you with our glares alone.”

“Oh Maker, Fenris would love to have that ability. ‘A string of unknown deaths all across Kirkwall: annoying bastards found dead after elf beat them in a staring contest.’ The nobles would go wild.” It didn’t take long for them to find themselves on the ferry, a quick sail to the Circle Tower in Kirkwall from the docks.

Carver tried to suppress his shivers as they climbed past the statuses of the slaves, horror painstakingly carved into their expressions. From Garrett’s quick grimace he shot Carver’s way, he hadn’t done a very good job. Bethany would have hated being in Kirkwall, would have hated seeing how miserable and terrified the city was. She would have hated being terrified about the threat of the Gallows and her either getting killed or dragged kicking and screaming by Templars.

Carver was almost thankful that she managed to stay out of Kirkwall.

It didn’t take very long to spot Knight Captain Cullen; he was standing in the middle of the Gallows with his arms crossed. Carver wondered if the man even had an office if he was glaring at everyone outside of the Tower.

“Well there he is, the man of the hour!” Garrett grinned impossibly wide, striding over to the Knight Captain, to Anders’  _ brother _ and wasn’t that a strange concept to think about? That a mage’s sibling would willingly work as a Templar and keep them confined in a tower. Carver hurried to keep up with his brother, if only to make sure that Garrett wouldn’t punch the man right as he was in range.

That would be an excellent start to a  _ discussion _ with the Knight Captain of the Kirkwall Circle Tower, where his brother would be dragged to after Cullen arrested him for decking him and then finding out about the magic Garrett hid well with his glaive.

Carver was going to get gray hair solely from stress before he even turned twenty years. If he even got to live for that long.

“Serrah Hawke.” Cullen’s voice was chilled and he did not look pleased to see them saunter right up to him. “And Serrah Hawke. What can I do for you?”

“I’m wounded, Captain!” Garrett placed his hand over his chest in mock offense. Carver wondered how much of that was faked and how much his brother really was offended by the Knight Captain’s presence. “Just a few days ago, you were clamoring all over for my help.”

“Yes, and that was before you refused to tell me where my brother was.” Cullen spoke through gritted teeth. “So unless you’ve come to change your mind, I really don’t think there’s anything we have to discuss, now is there?” The Knight Captain’s eyes were bloodshot: possibly from crying or maybe from staying up the past few nights to scour around Darktown. Carver hoped he hadn’t made a mistake in mentioning Darktown to the Templar; hoped Cullen wouldn’t find Anders just to drag him back to the Tower. Garrett would be devastated.

“Hmm, nope. Still haven’t changed my mind about that.” Garrett’s laugh was forced. “But I did come to talk to you about Anders. Which you’re lucky I’m just here to talk and not dump your body in the water. Carver begged me to be civil.”

Carver sighed. “I did not beg.” He muttered, knowing Garrett would simply pretend he hadn’t said anything contrary.

“Well then, your brother is a smart man.” Cullen turned away. “You wouldn’t have been around much longer if you tried, Serrah Hawke. Please excuse me.”

“I won’t excuse you. Not until you tell me why you never bothered trying to spring your brother out of solitary confinement in Kinloch Hold. Sounds like you are a great brother to have.” Garrett never dropped the smile, but his face had hardened. Carver could almost see the calculations of how quickly his brother could swing his glaive for decapitation before he would be stopped. Carver stepped forward to push his shoulder against his.

A reminder: not here. Not where everyone can see. 

The Knight Captain was horrible at masking his emotions. The Templar had turned to face them, his expression construed into one of such open misery that Carver almost felt bad for him.

“Wh-what? How could I- how could have I helped Ragnvald?” There was a dusty red growing on his cheeks. “He ran, he always ran. It was punishment for breaking the rules! I couldn’t have just let him go without trying to get him to see the error of his ways!” 

“Bullshit!” Garrett roared fists curled tight at his side to keep them from reaching for his weapon. “He was your brother! And you just left him down with the rats? Someone could have left him to starve to death for wanting to feel the wind in his face and you wouldn’t have even cared! Because it was against your bloody inhumane rules!”

The shouting had attracted the attention of everyone milling around the Gallows courtyard, the merchants and other Templars all looking wide-eyed in their direction.

“Know what is in your rules? Treating people like they are worse than the darkspawn because they can cast a few fireballs! And you and everyone in your entire Order sees that as a good thing!” Garrett was shorter than the Knight Captain by a good few inches, but with his rage he seemed to tower over Cullen.

“Mages aren’t people.” Cullen said weakly, the red flush growing as his embarrassment or shock grew. Carver couldn’t tell which. “Not like you or me. They have to be locked away from the rest of society for the good of themselves and around everyone else.”

“Not – Not people? Is that what you think of them? What you think of your own  _ brother _ ?” For one terrible second, Carver thought Garrett would grab the knife at his hip and stick it straight through the Knight Captain’s eye. He was stepping forward to grab his brother’s arm and pull him away when Garrett took a step back.

“You know, I’m pretty glad you actually tried to kill him after he got out of solitary. Otherwise he might never have managed to leave your stupid tower with its barbaric rules and punishments.” Garrett shook his head. “And he would have never realized what a sack of demon piss you are.” Garrett wheeled around and angrily stomped out of the Gallows.

“But I, I –I’ve never tried to kill him.” Whatever anger Cullen had felt at the confrontation had been chased away; his face shockingly white.

Carver threw a look at the Knight Captain. “Well, Anders certainly seems to think so.” He said quietly. “And since you don’t think he’s even a human being, well I can’t blame him for coming to that conclusion, true or not.” Carver knew the stories from Father’s time in the Circle were bad, and it appeared that it was even worse than what Carver remembered him whispering right before bed when was little.

Carver turned and followed his brother back to the ferry to take them back home.

* * *

 

Cullen couldn’t feel any of his limbs. Could barely register one of the Templar recruits hesitantly asking him if he wanted them to chase after the Hawkes.

The words Hawke had yelled at him kept spinning around his head, over and over in a never-ending cycle. He had tried to kill Ragnvald. He had tried to _ kill _ Ragnvald.

“No, let it be. Just… grievances that were being said out loud.” His own voice sounded like he was speaking from underneath lake water. Ragnvald was alive. He had tried to kill him.

“Knight Captain Cullen!” Sharp boots stepped heavily across the bricks that cemented the Gallows Courtyard. Knight Commander Meredith’s eyes missed nothing of importance; Events people would dismiss as nothing, she would analyze for long periods of time, finding connections and plots that everyone else missed. It was remarkable. “I trust you have everything well under control here?”

Salute, stand straight, and report. Don’t think, Cullen told himself. Any weaknesses perceived by Meredith would mean instant retaliation to keep up efficiency.

“Yes, ma’am.” Cullen nodded. “Just a minor sentiment speech by a commoner. He’s been reprimanded and sent on his way.” Words were easy when he wasn’t thinking about what to say. Order and rules and repeated motions, those things made the world bearable. Anything that broke the peace was something to be contained or eradicated.

“Hmph.” Meredith gazed out, squinting at the little ferry just passing through the gates of the city. “A glaive is an odd weapon for any man to use. Eyes open and stay sharp. We have a duty to protect this city from the mages, and we will not fail.”

Protect the city from mages. Mages who were always locked away for their protection because they were dangerous. Cullen watched as Meredith marched back into the Gallows, not sparing another glance at her Knight Captain.

A glaive was an uncommon weapon. Cullen thought of the ease the elder Hawke had swung the bladed staff, using both ends to fight off the demons that the abomination on the Wounded Coast had called. If there was any time that someone would be unable to hide their magic, it would be when they were fighting demons.

_ I’m actually glad you tried to kill him when he got out of solitary. _ Hawke’s angry expression kept mulling around Cullen’s head. What was worse was remembering the almost disappointed expression the younger Hawke had thrown at him before leaving, as if Cullen shouldn’t have been proud to be doing his job. Shouldn’t be glad that he was protecting people, like the Hawke brothers themselves if the rumors he heard were right, from mages going out of control and summoning demons and doing blood magic whenever they so pleased. Mages were dangerous.

But… if what the Hawkes had said was true, then it wasn’t Ragnvald who tried to murder his sibling. It wasn’t the mage of the family who terrified his sibling so much that he ran away three years later.

Apparently Hjalmar had done that and he wasn’t supposed to be the dangerous one of their family.

_ It’s only a lie. _ Cullen told himself.  _ Ragnvald was confused.  _ His brother had always been a quiet mess after solitary, hardly able to string two words together after being down in the basements for a few weeks. There was no way that what he thought he saw actually happened. Cullen would never hurt his brother.

With a nod to the recruits on the other side of the courtyard, Cullen climbed the steps to enter the tower. He would need to check the guard rotation to make sure the evening was free.

And then it was time he found what he was looking for around Darktown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After this, there's one more chapter that's already pre-written and another one that has been sporadically added on to. I guess we'll see if I get inspiration??? 
> 
> After writing this chapter, I discovered I actually really like writing Carver, and was considering writing everything from his perspective, except that would make absolutely no sense and Carver would hate everything (more so than he already does, ah teenage angst.)


	6. Fury of the Hawke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrett Hawke is angry and goes to see his (not) boyfriend in the sewers for a date to make himself feel better which turns out to be exactly what he needed.

There was no word that could accurately describe the fury Garrett felt rushing throughout his body. The boat ride back from the Gallows was tense, Carver throwing him concerned glances, which only made him grip the handles of his daggers tighter.

It would have been so  _ easy _ . So simple to pull the blade out of the sheath and into the bastard’s eye before using it again to push through his jaw and trap it shut for the rest of his short miserable life.

Garrett Hawke had never thought of himself as a violent man; less as someone who craved hurting people for enjoyment and instead someone who killed to protect themselves.

It was different when he had to think about the Knight Captain. He claimed Anders was his brother and yet he had become a Templar to contain people who used magic, like Anders. Looked so wide-eyed and innocent at the very thought that there was such a thing as  _ too far _ , even when it concerned mages.

Especially when it concerned mages.

“A’rite lads. Kirk’all gates is yar stop. Up an’ over, the lot of you.” The ferryman jumped out of the boat, long rope in hand to tie to the dock. Carver was one of the first ones out, leaping over the edge and breathing a sigh of relief once both his feet were firmly on the wooden planks that made up the docking bay. Hawke followed much slower, smiling at the ferryman as he passed.

He was angry but it wouldn’t do to let anyone know how deep it ran.

Garrett walked beside Carver, as they moved through Lowtown, neither brother saying a word as people moved around. Once they stopped by one of the lifts that led into Darktown, Carver stopped, waiting for Garrett to realize and turn around.

“Go see your healer, brother.” Carver muttered, looking everywhere but at Garrett.

Garrett laughed. “I don’t need to see him right this instant, brother.” He did want to. Garrett wanted to scoop him up and never let him go.

Carver snorted. “I think you do. You’re too angry to be at Uncle Gamlen’s right now. You’d only end up being yelled at by mother and then leaving.” He shuffled his feet.

“You’ve never noticed when I’m angry before. What makes you think I need to calm down before being in the same room as mother?” It had only been a year since Bethany’s death, and somehow, Carver had become perceptive to things no one noticed before leaving Lothering. There was less fighting between the two of them; where before Carver lashed out at Garrett for the smallest of things, he had instead quieted, constantly coming to sit with his shoulder pressed against his.

It was bizarre; something Garrett wasn’t used to and wasn’t entirely sure how to react. So he simply shot smiles at Carver – like he always did, but now Carver seemed to smile back in that grimacing teenager way – and continued with life as normal. He didn’t know what else to  _ do _ . For as long as the twins had been born, Garrett’s sole purpose in life was to keep them safe, keep Bethany away from the Templars and Carver from doing something stupid and getting himself killed. His magic had manifested itself late, only a few months before Bethany set the neighbor’s hair on fire for bullying Carver. Augmented blade thrusts, sudden trips and loss of balance for a clean cut; that was Garrett’s specialty. Not fireballs raining down from the sky or stones flinging from the ground.

He had always been the soldier, the guardian, failing miserably in the responsibilities his parents had imposed on him since before he could remember. Garrett couldn’t blame his mother for the cold shoulder she had been giving him since Bethany’s death.

“You’re jittery.” Carver shrugged. “Haven’t stopped flexing your hands or rolling your shoulders since we got off the ferry. You used to do that a lot in Ostagar.”

Sometimes Garrett forgot that Carver was technically a veteran who had left the battlefield alive and in one piece. “Can’t stop looking at me brother?” Garrett winked. “Do you think I should charge or give you the family discount?” Humor was his best defense against everything. Words couldn’t hurt if he kept laughing at them.

Carver made a face and groaned. “No. No, I’m not dealing with you anymore. Down the chute you go with your kissy faces that I  _ don’t _ want anywhere near me.” His brother pushed him toward the entrance to Darktown, waiting until Garrett was completely on the lift before turning around and walking away. “Don’t come back until you got all that stupid out of you!”

Garrett could count on one hand the amount of times Carver had pushed him to be with someone else. Usually, he was always trying to separate Garrett from anyone he spent more than five minutes talking to. Maybe it hadn’t been jealousy at Garrett for being so charming around all the villagers, but annoyance that Garrett hadn’t spent that time with his younger brother.

Who knew? Garrett certainly didn’t and he had no intention of asking. The only thing he was worse at than making his parents proud was confronting emotional issues with his family. Avoiding everything involving feelings had worked pretty well so far, so really there wasn’t a need to change anything. Hopefully.

The gears on the lift shrieked, rusty metal grinding together as the elder Hawke brother spun the crank to go down. Garrett quelled the constant shiver that came with transitioning from Lowtown to Darktown; the lack of sunlight and the constant nauseating smell from being in the sewers filled him with disgust at the nobles of Kirkwall who never even lifted a finger to help improve the living conditions of the refugees. He still couldn’t believe Anders willingly set up his clinic down here, although he probably didn’t have much choice being an apostate Warden on the run who publicly advocates for mage rights. And it would be difficult for refugees to travel back and forth from Lowtown and back to Darktown for treatments from their resident healer. Perhaps it was a good thing Anders had opened his clinic down in the sewers although Garrett still didn’t like it.

Speaking of the Darktown Healer, there he was in all his glory of poor tattered robes and a tiredness that never seemed to lift off his malnourished shoulders. But he was smiling at the pair of children who had tucked themselves behind a fallen cart.

“Look at you being so brave,” Anders crooned at them, two girls from what Garrett spied over Anders’ head. “One more game of sticks and then I can heal your bruises, good as new!” The healer held out two of his fingers, one on each hand, and one of the girls pointed at his right hand. “Uh oh, you’re already winning. That’s not fair at all!” The girl farther back giggled and pointed at Anders’ other hand.

Garrett watched with a fond smile as Anders lost the game - for the fifth time by the sound of it – and the two girls moved close enough for Anders to send a wave of blue healing magic down their arms. They were silent as the light traveled throughout their entire body, the bruises that had been prominent on their faces and arms vanishing without a trace. The first girl sniffed.

“It doesn’t hurt anymore.” Tears had welled up in her eyes as she tackled the front of Anders’ robe. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, Healer!”

“Oof.” Anders wobbled slightly at the sudden weight. “Shh, Marlene. You don’t need to thank me for helping you. Just tell me next time something happens, okay? You too Darlene.” The second girl nodded, hiding slightly behind Marlene with her hand tightly grasping the other girl’s clothes.

“How are you this sweet and still kicking?” Hawke beamed as Anders scrambled to twist around while keeping Marlene and Darlene at his back, staff already out in his hand and pointed at Garrett.

“Andraste’s flaming bosom, Hawke!” Anders nearly dropped his staff trying to replace it back in its holster on the back of his coat. “You need to stop sneaking up on me like this. One of these days I’ll either char you or get an actual heart attack.”

“How about we avoid both and call it a really good day?” Garrett kneeled down to be at eye-level with the kids still hiding behind Anders. “And I see you got new precious cakes to lose at in every game.”

“We – we aren’t cakes, Ser.” The girl holding tightly to Anders’ coat – Marlene? – squeaked. “Please don’t try to eat us!” Anders threw a glare at Garrett before squatting down in front of the girls.

“Don’t worry about him, that sneaky fuzzball is my friend Garrett Hawke.” Anders smiled at them.

“Fuzzball? I am not a fuzzball, Anders!” Garrett protested. How was it that only a few words from Anders could ease the anger from his gut so easily? He had come down here – with Carver two steps away from literally pushing him down – to rant to Anders, to complain, to hold on to him and let him know that if he wanted his brother dead, Garrett was first in line to help.

Anders put a finger of his lips and hummed. “Hmmmm. What do you think Darlene? Is Hawke a fuzzball or do we have to find him a new nickname? Marlene?”

Darlene whispered into Marlene’s ear. “Darlene wants to know if his name is Hawke, then does that mean he can fly?” Marlene stepped out from behind Anders, Darlene following to stay behind her.

“I wish I could fly.” Garrett sighed, lips forming into a pout. “I rode on a dragon once and asked her to teach me how to fly but she just laughed and said no. Rude.”

“That is incredibly rude!” Marlene crossed her arms, her pout matching Garrett’s. Garrett could see Anders struggling not to burst into laughter at the sight. “Do you think if you ever find her again you could ask her to teach me to change into a shark for me? She might have changed her mind!” A tug from Darlene had Marlene turning around to listen what the other girls whispered to her. “And a horse! Darlene has always wanted to run like a horse.”

Garrett nodded. “A horse and a shark; got it. Both very important animals, how did I not think to ask Flemeth the dragon of those?”

“You clearly weren’t thinking, Ser Hawke.” Marlene sniffed.

These girls were too adorable. From the state of their clothes, they definitely lived in Darktown; Garrett had to wonder if they were refugees from Fereldan running from the Blight, or natives of Kirkwall who fell into economic trouble. Garrett had noticed more and more families who he knew lived in places around Lowtown vanishing only later to be seen begging on the streets for bits of coin.  

“No he clearly wasn’t.” Anders was standing now, flexing his knee to give feeling back into the joint. “It is clearly because you two have all the great ideas.”

“We sure do!” Marlene said brightly. Darlene laughed and nodded.

“Alright, off you two go. Next time, please don’t run to hide behind a cart. A cot is a perfectly reasonable place to play Sticks.” Anders poked the tops of their heads. Darlene swatted his finger away and leaned in closer to Anders after giving a wary glance to Garrett to whisper to his leg.

“You are very welcome, Darlene. Now come on, I see Catlin right over there; she’s had a fright thinking you both would get even more injured running off.”

“We’re sorry, Healer.” Marlene grabbed Darlene’s hand. “We were scared.”

“I know.” Anders smiled. “Don’t worry about it. Go to Catlin; she looks ready to pounce on you both.”

Garrett watched as the two girls ran to a woman wringing hands excessively. She couldn’t have been much older than Carver and subsequently Bethany, were she still alive.

“I’m going to head back to my clinic. I still have patients I need to see.” Anders gave a small smile to Garrett. “Do you need me for anything, Hawke?”

“Nope! Just wanted to come say hi and see your gorgeous face.” Garrett winked. “I may have also been pushed down the lift by my brother.”

Anders looked at him quizzically. “What did you do to make Carver that angry? Usually he’s just resigned when it comes to you. From what I’ve seen at any rate.”

Garrett shrugged. “Well I refrained from punching the Knight Captain in the face and only yelled at him. Which is civil for my standards, so I’m not entirely sure why he felt the need to ban me from going home.” Anders stiffened and stopped walking entirely, his face pale and eyes wide.

“You did what?” the healer’s breaths were beginning to catch in his throat. Garrett turned and grabbed Anders’ shoulders. His much too thin shoulders. How much of that of Anders just being naturally lean, and how much was it of poor nutrition even before coming to Kirkwall?

“Anders, it’s okay. I just yelled at him a bit for being a terrible brother to you. There wasn’t any fighting at all.” Garrett tried to make his voice sound soothing; tried to tamper down the panic he saw rising in Anders’ eyes.

“No, Hjalmar is my brother, he – he’s not terrible. Not terrible. It only happened once, just once.” Anders started babbling, his shoulders trembling in Garrett’s palms.

“Anders he tried to kill you! You told me that. And that’s not something that he can get a pass on, even if he wasn’t your brother.” Anders shook his head.

“No no no no no. You don’t understand, Hawke.” The mage started to pull away. “You went to the Gallows. You yelled at a Templar. The Knight Captain templar. No one yells at a templar. Let alone a mage.” Garrett frowned; Anders’ face had taken on a greenish tinge.

“Anders, my willowy fretting humanoid dragon future boyfriend, everything is fine.” Garrett patted his face. “Isn’t a man allowed to go complain to higher authorities when they are bitter about things? I did it in Fereldan all the time. Chantry Sister Leliana loved my complaints.”

Anders shook his head. “Not a mage.” He muttered. “Any complaints were to be kept to ourselves or else we were punished for criticizing the ‘hard work’ the templars did to keep us mages safe.” Hard work was emphasized with finger quotes. “And I’ve already told you that we can’t be together, Hawke. The fight for mage freedom comes first, before anything, for me. I’ll only hurt you.”

“I know.” Garrett grinned. “That’s why I said future boyfriend. And if that never happens, best friends is fine too, although you’d have to share that podium with Varric, of all dwarves.”

“Do you know any other dwarves?” Relief was evident in Anders’ tone at the change of subject.

“I know plenty of dwarves! I once spent a whole minute talking with Varric’s brother and a full conversation that one dwarf who keeps yelling at us to buy his blades in Hightown Marketplace.” He thought it might be Hightown. Maybe it was Lowtown? Or maybe Darktown? He couldn’t remember.

Anders whistled. “That’s a whole lot of dwarf in your life, Hawke. Too much dwarf I’m thinking.”

“Shut up, Anders. Have you met any other dwarves beside Varric?”

“You mean all the ones from the Carta that keep stumbling their way through my doors for healing after running into you? Or the ones I met before coming to Kirkwall? Because let me tell you, Varric is so much better than Oghren. Not as much fun as Sigrun, but that’s a high bar to reach.”

“You haven’t talked about them before. Story time in the clinic?” Garrett looped his arm through the paler skinned mage’s arm. “You can talk while you heal so Justice is happy and you’re happy and I’m happy. Everyone is happy!” Anders laughed.

“Yes, yes alright. You can get all the dirty details of the daily life of Oghren seeing how he never wanted that shit private anyways.”

Garrett would never mention how he nearly squealed with delight when they skipped together through the sewers that made up Darktown to Anders’ clinic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have decided to make the executive decision of adding characters from Origins in this. Because, why not? Leliana was fantastic in Origins and I miss the whole crew of sarcastic assholes.


	7. ... Cullen Doesn't Get

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen is making his way downtown, walking fast, Anders wants to run from Darktown, even faster. It's the confrontation that only one wanted, and neither of them are ready for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you mean I wrote over 3,000 words for this Maker Cursed chapter?

Hawke had stayed in his clinic for hours, far after when the sun had set and cloaked the world outside of Darktown in shadows. There was still a swarm of patients coming in and out of the clinic, begging the Darktown Healer for a cure from the sickness that never seemed to leave the sewers or to reset a bone from upturned carts. Occasionally, which was more often than not, Anders was healing bruises and contusions on the refugees from proper citizens that took offense to their begging on the streets for some coin.

In the back of his mind, Justice colored his thoughts with distaste. “I know.” Things would be so much easier if he and the spirit could have a proper discussion. Maker, Anders would feel much calmer if he could just  _ talk _ with Justice about everything like they used to back with the Wardens. At least then he could pretend that he hadn’t ruined everything he touched.

_ Unease, tentative compassion, confusion.  _

“I’m okay.” Anders muttered. His patients had grown used to the ramblings under his breath, taking it as something quirky their precious Healer used to cope. The citizens of the sewers knew all about coping. “I’m sorry I’m so unstable. I know this isn’t what you expected when we had our plans to change the world.”

_ Determination, confidence, that warm feeling when the Commander clasped his shoulder with a smile. _

It was hard to claim what every feeling was, but if Anders had to guess… “Pride? You’re proud? Of me?”

_ Certainty, doubtful apprehension.  _

“Oh, Justice.” Anders had never known anyone that was proud of him, proud in his abilities. It was unfathomable. He pushed back feelings of doubt as he smiled at a patient who had come in sporting a massive gash on his forehead. Now he was double checking the stitching, hoping that none of the dampness from the sewers would get through the stitches and infect the wound.

Justice drowned out all thoughts of doubt with purpose of their goals, of freeing the mages and helping the refugees.

“There you are, ser! Nice and tight and should hold well.” Anders helped the man to his feet from his wobbling cot.

“Many thanks, Heal-“ A large commotion outside the clinic doors interrupted any conversation inside. Deathly silence fell among the group of people inside Anders’ clinic as the refugees tensed. Violence was the currency for survival down in the sewers.

“That’s the green lantern I’m looking for, you Blighted idiot!” A crash resounded outside, most likely from the wooden crates stacked on the corner.

“Alright everyone!” Anders whispered loudly, starting to pull everyone to their feet. “Back door through the side over there; try to help each other out.” His patients hurriedly moved where Anders pointed, a few turning back to look back at him.

“Healer, come on. You’ll be caught if you stay in here.” One of the women hissed. Anders shook his head.

“Don’t worry about me! I’ll distract them for a bit and make my escape. I’ll stop by your place tomorrow morning with your husband’s medicine.”

“You better! The only way you eat anything at all is if Janicia sits on you to keep you from running off. No protesting whatever I salvage.” One by one, the refugees carefully climbed out of the sidewall where a crumbling hole led into one of the smaller sewer alleys, connecting to the main branch farther down.

It wasn’t long after the last patient disappeared in the darkness that his clinic doors burst open. Outside, several refugees were groaning on the ground, shards of wood splayed everywhere. And in front of his now open doors stood Hjalmar, who was breathing heavily, glaring at the now scampering people. Anders took a step back, fear coursing through his veins.

_ Anger, fear, dismay, scar him as he scarred you, justice _ !!!

“Please not now! Please, please, Justice!” Anders could barely breathe. He wanted to run, run as he did before away from his brother, but he was blocking the door and he couldn’t dash down the sidewall, not when his patients were using it to escape.

_ I should have gone with them. _ Anders realized. If only he had, then he wouldn’t be trapped in his own home with a brother who wanted him dead.

_ He shall not have you! _ Justice’s voice, which Anders hadn’t heard in months, roared in his mind; the mage would have wept with relief were he not petrified in terror at the Templar now standing alone at his door.

“Find the green lantern, he says. Like its so easy to spot a lamp with green fire down in this squelch!” Hjalmar – no, Cullen – was muttering, head swinging back and forth between the lantern hanging on the wall and Anders himself.

When would the sword come out? Anders wondered. When would the smites hit, trapping him helpless without his magic? 

_ Denial, determination, fight, justice! _ The feeling of justice sent by his spirit companion was like a blanket, wrapping tightly around him for comfort the only way Justice knew how. It didn’t quell the terror of seeing Hjalmar, even if he wasn’t in his Templar armor, but it helped Anders focus. 

He was the Runaway Mage. The locked away magical convict that escaped from the Circle seven times, with his head held high and sarcastic laughter aimed at his wardens.  _ Wardens, ha! _ He’d been one of those too, facing down darkspawn in their own blighted tunnels, his magic keeping all of his comrades alive. 

He could deal with Hjalmar without panicking. 

Anders squared his shoulders and took a shallow breath, his heart beating too quickly from the scare to calm. With determined steps, Anders pushed past Hjalmar-Cullen to squat next to one of the fallen refugees, adamantly not looking at his younger brother. He carefully patted down the refugee, Toma from the looks of his hair, trying to find any breaks in bones, or torn skin.

“Ragnvald…” Anders heard Hjalmar-Cullen say. Anders ignored him.

“Got’a mean right hook, that one does.” Toma grunted as he pushed away Anders’ hands. “M’fine, kiddo. Just a knock-a-bout in the head. Got worse from my six-year-old when she was still ‘round.”

“Of course you have. Just want to be sure the rats won’t follow any of that strong blood if it’s outside your body. Bad for the clinic.” It was easy to be funny. Easy to slide into that deflection humor gave him.

“Ouch, lad”, Toma winced, “Those rats of yours got nothing on your prodding.” There was a bit of bleeding from his head where a laceration had split open the skin above Toma’s ear. Anders’ reached into his pocket and pulled out a cloth and carefully wiped around the wound. 

“Did you start a bar fight in the streets again Toma? You know your cousin is going to have strong words with you if that’s the case.” From behind him, Anders could hear Cullen sputter, trying to valiantly get his attention without storming over.

“Nah, not this time,” Toma pointed at Cullen. “That dear gentleman there came storming up to the doors tryna cut the line of everyone else waiting for their turn to see you. Told him we may live in the sewer but our manners ain’t always shit. We’re not  _ Orlesians _ .”

Anders forced himself to look at Cullen, ignoring Justice’s wordless angry hisses. The Templar Knight Captain didn’t bother looking ashamed at lashing out at civilians, at people who had nothing to do with his ire. He was too focused on looking at Anders, Ragnvald - Maker, it felt like another lifetime since he was Ragnvald. Only Hjalmar had called him by his birth name since he had been taken to the Tower and he had gotten used to being called Anders. 

“Too right, Toma.” Anders patted the man on the back before extending out his arm to help him stand. His nerves fluttered as he looked away from Cullen, focusing on helping Toma start walking away from the clinic. He needed to get away, it would be so easy right now. Just dash away, far from his clinic; Cullen couldn’t know the streets of Darktown better than Anders did. He would be lost within seconds. 

_ Angry confrontation, righteousness, indignation.  _ If feelings were words, Justice would have been bellowing in his ears. And he would have been right; Anders had been a Warden, by law he longer had to be dragged back to the Circle. And… Anders shot another look at Cullen. He didn’t have his sword. Cullen was weaponless and wasn’t wearing his Templar Order armor. It didn’t make Anders feel any better, Cullen could still smite him with barely any effort from his end.

But maybe…. Maybe he wasn’t here about the Circle? 

Anders wished running away was still an option.  

 

* * *

 

Toma was no fool. Simple, yes. Idiotic at times, even. But never had he been pegged for a fool and Andraste-tits if he was going to start being one now. 

Let Darktown’s only healer be dragged off by the Templars? Ha! What kind of moron would let that happen? The Knight Captain may have thought he was being secretive with his old-looking clothes and lack of Templar insignia, but Toma could tell that the quality of the material was top notch. Soft wool, terrible for the sewers but good for warmth during winter months. Not to mention that temper...No Knight Captain Cullen of the Templar Order was not proficient in subtly. 

Toma, on the other hand, well he had been around the old block for decades now. A Kirkwall native in the sewers for Maker-knows how many years, he had found camaraderie with the Fereldan refugees who flooded the lower levels of Kirkwall during the Blight two years ago. A good source of humor and melodrama, that bunch was, even if they did squirrel away in Toma’s best spots. 

Even before Toma moved down to Darktown from Lowtown, he had never held the Templar Order in any high esteem. Meredith Stannard had wrangled and murdered her way to be the sole authority of Kirkwall, yet instead of putting that gained political power to use - like the infrastructure of the city; Maker knows Kirkwall is in desperate need of a renovation - she squandered it to her little fortress out past Slavers Docks.  

And recruited desperate hooligans like the Knight Captain who did nothing to aid the Guard in cleaning up the streets from those damn mercenary thugs that never slept. 

Toma snorted, drawing the attention of the Healer who still held onto his arm as they slowly walked away from the clinic, Templar Knight Captain Cullen following close behind. 

“You say the word, laddie,” Toma muttered under his breath, “and we’ll lose him within the next dozen steps.” It was gratifying to see the Healer’s eyes widen in hopeful optimism. Old Toma still had his tricks, no matter what the streets tried to say. 

Anders shook his head. “As much as I would love to, I can’t.” His voice was as soft as Toma’s, and Anders discreetly looked behind him to see that the Knight-Captain was still following. “We have a long history, and someone tells - well, told me - that running doesn’t solve everything.”

“Aye, I thought that might be the case. Still a pile of horse manure, that’s what I say to you. Runnin’ is always an option. Live to fight another day and all.” Toma pulled to a stop and grinned toothily at the Healer. 

“I’ll be good from here, Healer. I’m sure you got loads more work you need done then taking me home.” 

“Stay safe, Toma.” The springy old male clambered over a few crates, ducking into the shadows from the tunnel walls without another word. His destination wasn’t too far away. 

It had only been a few minutes when Toma found himself back along the passageway that led to the Healer’s clinic. Though, from the sounds echoing towards him, that had been too long. Peeking around a corner, Toma saw Anders standing stiffly, blue sparks fizzing around his back as the Knight Captain paced angrily in front of him. 

“- never pulled my sword on you!” Cullen spat, face red most likely from all the shouting Toma had heard. 

“Why don't you ever believe me?” Ah, the Healer wasn't standing as stiffly as Toma first thought; his entire body was trembling, from restraint or fear, Toma had no idea. He didn't need to know. 

“Because you are a mage, Ragnvald!” Cullen shrieked. “Mages have demons, and demons lie and lie and laugh and know nothing else!” 

“And you know all about demons, don’t you  _ Cullen _ ?” The Healer was starting to show blue cracks in his skin, oh dear. 

“Better than you! You weren’t there when the Circle fell to those Blood Mages, you weren’t trapped with those-those things whispering in your ears!” 

“You know nothing of what I have been through!” Anders shouted, a shock wave of magic shooting out of his skin harmlessly into the air. 

“Ragnvald - Anders, you…” Toma couldn’t see what the Knight Captain had seen to make him step back in alarm, his hand reaching for a sword that wasn’t there.

“I get woken up from my Ancestor-damned well earned nap for this?” A dwarf stomped out of one of the adjacent tunnels, hair pulled in a messy ponytail to show off the casteless tattoo etched on their face. “A couple of loud brainless nugs and significantly less adorable.”

Toma watched from the side as Anders turned to face the newcomer, blue light ebbing away from his eyes. “Brosca,” he blinked, “what are you doing here?” 

“Why do you think, blondie? Gramps sent one of his little crows because no one else in this damn city can solve any of their own problems.” Brosca nodded towards Toma’s spot, curse those Dwarven senses. Toma stepped out where the two humans could see him; glad that at the very least Cullen looked surprised when he appeared from the shadowed corner. His roguish tricks aren’t as impressive as they used to be now that he’s grown old.

“There’s not really a problem, Brosca,” Anders hedged, “just a disagreement?” 

“A disagreement about missed family dinners? Stone, do I know all about that.” Brosca snorted.

“How did you -” 

“Shut it, Blondie-two.” Brosca smoothly interrupted Cullen’s shout. “All of Darktown could hear your shouting, are you really that stupid that you’d think no one would listen to all that brotherly drama?” 

Toma couldn’t tell what the Knight Captain was thinking, but he didn’t like the sudden razor sharp focus he gave to Brosca. 

“Anders, I am almost disappointed in you; all of our hang out sessions together and you never mentioned you had a brother.”

“I… didn’t want to…” Anders trailed off, nervously eyeing Cullen, “didn’t want to think about it.” 

Brosca shrugged, “Fair enough.” Without warning, she jumped into the air, rotating her body backwards into a flip to dodge a snarling Cullen attempting to tackle the dwarf to the ground. Toma leaped back in surprise, his wordless shout drowned out by Anders cry of “Hjalmar” as he evoked a barrier into place. Brosca grunted as she landed meters behind Cullen, legs kicking out in a spin to bring the Templar to his knees before leaping forward to pin Cullen in place by standing on his shoulder blades and pressing a knife to the back of his neck.

“Can the sparks, blondie. I got this.” Brosca grinned, increasing the pressure on her serrated blade. Anders dispelled the barrier but didn’t lower his hands, staring intently at his brother. 

“LIttle nug thought he could take me down with his bare hands? Stupid.” Brosca laughed. “I’m ex-carta from Orzamar, brat. You wouldn’t last an hour in Dust Town, let alone the Carta tunnels. Who walks around Darktown without even a knife?” 

Cullen snarled, straining and thrashing to get the dwarf off of him. 

“Brosca, please,” Anders moved forward, “I know he’s rather… angry. But please, just let him go.” 

“Sentiment will only get you exiled, Anders. Or dead, I suppose,” she added as an afterthought, pulling out a length of rope from one of her many pockets. “I know he’s your brother and all, so you can see him in three days time in my usual corner. I’ll send word if you can see him earlier, later, or not at all.” With deft hands, Brosca swiftly wrapped Cullen up with the rope, restraining his limbs and throwing him over her shoulder. 

“Toma, Meredith will be sniffing around Lowtown for her captain, can you take care of that?” 

“Of course,” Toma nodded, “It’s known that the Knight Captain takes loads of’a trips out to the Wounded Coast; spreadin’ the rumors is a breeze.” Holding the captain though, Toma wondered if Brosca was up to the task. Desperate creatures were hardly predictable. 

“Don’t worry about Blondie two, Gramps.” Brosca laughed. “He won’t be able to leave my sights. Besides, if we let him go, all he would only come back in full regalia with others to raze the place down. I know his type. Determined nuggers.” 

“She won’ hurt the lad,” Toma said to Anders as they watched Brosca march off with Cullen, his legs long enough to be brushing the ground with every step Brosca took. 

“I know,” Anders whispered, “but what if he hurts them?” 

Toma shrugged. “Nothin’ we can do about it ‘til it happens. Now, where are you gonna stay tonight, kiddo? I know Janicia’ll love to have you spend the night before meal sludge in the morning.” 

It would have been better if Toma was able to take the Healer in for the night, but his corner wasn’t big enough for two to sleep. And the rest of his holes would be claimed by now. 

“I’ll….ah, I’ll head up to Lowtown.” Anders finally said, after a long silence. “Got a friend that I can stay with and he may know of a new location for the clinic.” 

“I'll keep these old ears and eyes open as well,” Toma promised. “Now, off you go. Gotta get those few hours of precious sleep while you can.” 

“Thanks, Toma.” Toma waved away Anders’ gratitude. If only he was able to do more. Without another word, they split; Toma heading deeper into the sewers and Anders to a nearby elevator that would take him to an alleyway in Lowtown. Tomorrow, Toma would find a place for the Healer and get his crows to help move everything. 

Now all he could pray for was Knight Commander Meredith Stannard never finding out her Knight Captain was kidnapped in Darktown so she would have an excuse to destroy the sewage system so many reluctantly called home.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LET ME ADORE MY DARKTOWN RESIDENT OCS. Toma is my new favorite, no one can say anything otherwise. He's an old man (elf, dwarf, Qunari, Darkspawn, who knows) full of sarcasm and sort of good intentions. 
> 
> And Brosca! My lovely Origins Dwarf Commoner character. In this, she was exiled to the Deep Roads instead of executed since Duncan didn't show, and managed to make her way to Kirkwall where she's stayed ever since. She's basically the counselor of Darktown and works closely with Anders as well as helps him. NO ONE TOUCH THEM. 
> 
> Also, I'm not apologizing for basically avoiding the entire confrontation. I literally had no idea how to write it... so I just added someone else?????
> 
> In other news, this is the last chapter I have finished up so far. Since I've still been slowly picking at it, I'll probably continue writing, just don't expect anything too quickly.


End file.
